


Rhythm of Luck

by hystericalcherries, njckle



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette, F/M, LadyNoir - Freeform, Marichat, Slow Burn, Step Up AU, breakdance au, ladrien, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalcherries/pseuds/hystericalcherries, https://archiveofourown.org/users/njckle/pseuds/njckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adrien dreams of a life beyond flashing camera lights and his father's shadow. These dreams eventually lead him to an underground dance club where he meets and falls in love with Ladybug, the leader of a dance crew called "The Miraculous." When a rich businessman's plans to destroy the dancers' school threatens their happiness, Adrien, under the guise of the cocky Chat Noir, must join forces with them to turn their performance art into protest art, even though doing so may place his own dreams in jeopardy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beat Calls

**Author's Note:**

> Been thinking about this AU for a while and the entire craze that recently went through the fandom has revived the urge to write this. So, thank you starrycove.

The earliest memory Adrien has is of dancing.

He is three and his mother carries him in her arms, gently swaying to a tune she hums herself. He grips the front of her shirt in one chubby hand and a lock of hair in the other, happily giggling as he basks in the greatness that is her attention.

“You like it when we dance, huh, sweetie?” He has all but forgotten the sound of her voice now, but what he does remember is the lovely feeling he felt when he heard it- like sunshine bursting through the window of his heart. “It's fun, isn't it?”

“Yes!” His toddler self would tell her, bouncing in her grip, letting go of her hair in order to clap excitedly. “More! More! Dancing!”

Then she would respond to his words by twirling, skipping along the room in a way that has him squealing. A hop step would have her dress flaring out and him exclaiming louder, her own tinkling laugh harmonizing with his own. And sometimes, when the planets align and the moment is just right, his father would join them, guiding them into a clumsy waltz that left Adrien feeling whole and loved.

At thirteen, such happy memories are scarce. More often than naught, he passes the days, weeks, months on autopilot, mind in a daze while his body moves by muscle memory. Gone is his mother and their times spent together, his father becoming so distant that it’s as if he lost two parents that fateful day instead of one.

He lives and breathes as instructed, following a planned schedule that only fits in what his father deems important. Every step, every heartbeat, is calculated and he sits and watches them solve his life as if he is merely a single variable in an equation with only one answer. Most of his time is spent modeling for his father’s company or studying, no remembrance of dancing or fooling around to waste his time.

It’s a surprise he takes it up again.

More surprising is that he has Chloé to thank for it. She takes her place as one of the few lifelines in a world controlled and dictated by adults, and he decides to stick with her the moment he realizes it. While people make plans, she makes orders; she is a force that demands to be listened to and will not bow down to the rules set by others- it’s inspiring in a way, her self appointed superiority.

It's this take charge attitude that has her storming to her father one day and convincing (threatening) him to talk to Adrien’s. Later that day he finds himself notified through text that his schedule has changed, a new block opening in between gymnastics and fencing. And that's how he ends up in ballet with her.

It's then, amidst the mirrors and banisters, that he realizes his passion.

Dance.

Ballet turns into ballroom, then to swing, from there jazz and hip-hop. Anything he can get his hands on, he dives into it- waltz, tango, breakdancing, jitterbug, it doesn’t matter- and he loves it all. He wants to try a little of everything, spend hours learning and practicing, while ignoring the pressures of society and those instilled on him by his father.

Given this one freedom, he’s more compliant, more involved with the photoshoots, more of a better son - or, at least, that’s what Natalie says to ease his father. And, luckily enough, his father accepts it and Adrien’s given this small leeway.

By seventeen, he's delved into so many genres, he starts to get creative. He mixes everything together, finding his place in the rhythm of life behind closed doors. To the outside world, he is his father’s son, proper and obedient to the dot, but there, in the safety of his room, he is solely him, Adrien.

He can dance and jump, be as wild as he wants, and have no one judge him. It is a freedom that has him flying, feeling powerful and capable of anything. Like a switch, he is changed; breezy smiles replace stiff shoulders, daring moves work over insecurities, and a light heart clouds the picture of a broken home- all because of dance. It liberates him, continuing to do so when everything else fails.

It’s that reason why, when destiny beckons to him with spots and swinging hips, he goes willingly.

 

* * *

His father’s out of the country for a week, so he's given laxity for the time being.

The watchful gaze of the household staff are dulled with his father’s absence, no one in any hurry to follow orders than can’t be enforced by a piercing stare and suffocating silence. He doesn’t mind the noticeable decrease of activity of the mansion, nor the way that even Natalie gives a brisk synopsis of his schedule and makes herself scarce, because though it leaves him thoroughly alone, it gives him room to breath and think and act as his own person.

As with anytime his father is away, he takes advantage of the lapse of immediate responsibilities and sets out into the world. And by world, he means the ballet studio three blocks away from home to visit Chloé.

Like always, he's going by heiress’s schedule, so that means waiting in the side studio as she changes. According to Sabrina, she's just finished her session with her private tutor (an _absolutely wonderful routine_ , if her words are anything to go by), so he'll have to wait until she's presentable.

He chats with Sabrina for a while before her attention diverges to her phone, which leaves him to fiddle with the piano in corner. His fingers slide across the keys, lingering when he reaches the last one. Tentatively, he hits a note before looking up, wary of Chloé coming back from the back room early- he didn't need more of her glorifying him- and is glad to see that the two are still alone.

He starts and finishes a mediocre rendition of one of his father's favorite pieces.

“There's this new dance group getting media attention all around Paris,” Sabrina gushes from her seat on the ground, startling him (he didn't even notice when she had moved), effectively breaking through his daze. “Have you see it yet?”

“No,” he says, abandoning the instrument and leaning closer when she tilts her screen in favor of his position. “Are they any good?”

A arm loops itself through his and a pressure is applied to his side. Chloé, silent in her sudden entrance and smelling of a perfume closely resembling one from his father's line, smiles coyly up at him. “Not as good as you.”

He tries to edge away, but she follows. “I'm really not that good.”

“Oh, don't be absurd! You’re one of the best in the class! Even Daddy thinks so!”

“Ballet is a little different than street dancing, Chloé.” Not that he himself is limited, but he’s never partaken with dancers outside of studios. The aspect of going against someone who’s been dancing since they were children and didn't need the strict structure of teaching to do it, and out in the public no less, is too frightening.

Chloé has more confidence in his abilities than him. “You’ve had the best teaching money could buy- alongside me that is- and nothing some street urchins could shovel up on camera can beat that.”

“I guess we'll have to see.” He waves towards Sabrina’s phone, effectively prying himself away and focusing on the screen before Chloe can complain. Thankfully, the other girl gets the hint and presses play and they have no choice but to let their attention get captured.

The background is nothing noteworthy, just a plain college building with muddy colors. An afternoon light highlights the lighter shades, making it more homey and eye catching than it really is.

However, before scrutiny can focus on the less than impressive appearance of the scenery, figures swagger their way into the picture. There can't be more than fifteen of them, varying in both height and build, and they start to move to a song that Adrien recognizes from the radio.

It's… amazing.

Dressed in school uniforms, they dance in perfect formation and move with fluidity that can only come from extensive practice. Everything about them is empowering and he follows their movements with bated breath, wondering what they're going to do next.

The group loses dancers as they get closer to the school behind them, an invisible force striking them down one by one. What was smooth becomes jerky, every step a struggle until half of the group are lying on the ground, seemingly immobile and useless against the strings that tie them down.

There's one girl left standing, jerking like a marionette doll, fighting off the pull trying to ground her and making her way closer to the school; each step is a battle in the name of her friends and she powers through all of them with strength that's inspiring. She's brighter and stronger and Adrien finds himself cheering her on; red against white and black, spirit against submission, she is everything he wants to be.

When the rest of her group rise up as one, movements synchronized and fake in a way that reminds him of his photoshoots, he’s drawn in more than he should be. It's a show, presenting the injustice of the real world, where the strong fight off those who abandon dreams and hopes. The dancers surround the girl, encompassing her in a tight circle like a cornered animal. Slinking forward and latching on her, they finally make their goal and, before she can reach the school’s door, she falls.

Near what Adrien assumes is the end of the dance, the camera pans out, roaming over the dancers once last time before focusing on the building.

The video stops not because it's done, but because Chloé rips it out of her friend’s hand, glaring at the screen angrily. “What.”

The reaction is understandable. Adrien raises his eyebrows at the words painted on the school’s side: SAVE COLLÉGE, FRANÇOISE DUPONT- BOURGEOIS MAY STEAL THE BALLOT, BUT NOT OUR VOICE. It was a statement, and a bold one at that, if he saw one; a personal attack upon the mayor’s name and credibility, a radical move that would surely gain friction- was already gaining friction, if the number of hits the video had already gotten was anything to go by.

Sabrina fumbles when Chloé tosses the phone away. “Ugh, who do they think they are?”

Her friend pushes up her glasses. “Well, they're, ah, calling themselves ‘The Miraculous.’”

But Chloé doesn't appear to hear her best friend, already deeming the dance group and what they fight for not worth her precious time and energy. The blonde rises from her seat, kicking away the foot stool so that she can stand on wedged heels and teeter towards him.

“I don't care who they are, they don't know who they're dealing with. Daddy could have them arrested with a snap of his fingers.” The blonde goes on to exaggerate her father’s power and Adrien takes the time to look up the same video on his own (not to see more of the girl, he convinces himself, but for the dances in general).

He's more than surprised when he comes across an extensive blog.

“Looks like it's to save a school,” Adrien says, scrolling down and finding a picture to go with the video. An article below it tells of the unjustly closure of the public school not too far from his home. “Isn't this the one you went to?”

Chloé sniffs disdainfully, not bothering to look. “It wasn't even a good school. The only reason I went was because Daddy said it would give him better standing. More votes, or whatever.”

The blogs gives resources and states that the school will be turned into another luxury hotel- the second of an upcoming chain that will undoubtedly be expensive and frivolous and beyond the price range of most of Paris. It is not surprising that, when he looks up the proprietor, an André Bourgeois shows up.

Gabriel Agreste is on the list of benefactors in support of the new establishment.

It is years of practice and control that he stops his lip from curling in a grimace. Chloé, misinterpreting the expression that does flitter across his face for all of a second, tilts her head up and continues on her spiel with more vigor. Only Sabrina, a fellow comrade in this exorbitant friendship, understands when he sends her an eye roll behind the other's back and offers a infinitely small smile in response, attention snapping back to Chloé when she turns (no one the wiser).

By the third verse of the same song Adrien finds himself losing interest and soon it's only the manners his father(‘s staff) has instilled in him keeping up the pretense of listening. His mind goes back to the video, replaying the dance moves repeatedly, trying to break them down. He's seen countless videos, whether they're tutorials or breakdowns, but those moves are something else.

His phone still displays the blog and, inquisitively, he scrolls up to see the latest post. There's a petition asking for signatures and a donation box, all in support of their cause. He's just about to click the link provided when something catches his attention.

It's an upcoming event, a show, and at the bottom, a date’s highlighted.

Today's date.

“Coming, Adrikins?” Chloé’s at his side again, bringing him close with her palm digging uncomfortably into his bicep.

Adrien blinks. “Hmm?”

“Daddy gave me a new credit card to break in.” She brings out the plastic card from her purse, waving it as if the sight will sway him. “I'm thinking of buying the entire mall.”

“Sorry,” he says, gently pulling himself out of her grip, “I'm going to have to catch up with my tutor so I can make up for the back-to-back photoshoots tomorrow. Maybe some other time?”

A pathetic lie, but it would have to do. One day without him won't hurt her, the number of times he's refused to go along with her plans few and far between, so he's only partially guilty at the put out face she makes. She did make him wait after all.

“Well, alright, but only if you promise to take me out to dinner next week.” She smiles, lip gloss shinning unnaturally bright in the light.

He nods as he backs away, sending her a trademark smile in response, ever polite and polished. “Of course. I'll tell Natalie to schedule it.”

This satisfies her and she smirks, giving him a side eye that he knows she practices in the mirror. “Good.”

He takes his leave then, shutting the door and making his way calmly to the elevator at the end of the hall. His footsteps are muffled against the carpeted floor, untelling of the giddiness coursing through him, and by the time he finally makes it to the lobby he’s already made his own plans.

 

* * *

When he arrives at the train station, he hopes that all his troubles are worth it. Time spent searching for a time and place on the blog had been difficult, hidden as it was with an expertise he lacks. It's a public event, yes, but only to those who won't put a stop to it and, he realizes, not just anyone was supposed to be able to find it. Adrien isn't even sure he, the close friend of the mayor’s daughter, is supposed to know about what was going to go down that evening.

A flash mob in the middle of one of Paris’ busiest stations.

Though it doesn't matter because, as Adrien sits at an empty bench in the middle of the station, he starts to think that, maybe, he’s been fooled. Five minutes until the designated time and still nothing; no unusual persons exhibiting odd behaviors or grand stage setup that indicates anything out of the ordinary was going to take place. Sure, occasionally, someone would send a glance his way, but he assumes it's in regard to his likeness to the giant poster plastered on the wall behind him and not in suspicion of the knowledge he holds.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Startled, Adrien nearly falls out of his seat at the voice, but manages to catch himself and cover it with a casual stretch as he turns.

It's a boy his age, tall and tan skinned, with thick rimmed glasses that settle over a hooked nose. Despite it being summer, his worn sneakers and pooling jeans lead Adrien to think he came fresh out of school, complete with a bulking backpack in his grip.

“Oh, uh, no, you can sit here.”

“Cool.”

He sits and Adrien feels unnerved because, like clockwork, he begins to politely ignore him in favor of their surroundings- just as if he was at work. Feeling extremely awkward, he checks his watch not once, but twice. When he determines that no time has passed since the last time he had checked, Adrien sits back and wonders if he should say something, start a conversation about… anything really- only, thankfully, he doesn't need to. The boy takes the reins, pushing words between them as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

“What’s with that cat?”

Adrien faces him, confused. “Cat?”

The young man nods at something over his shoulder and Adrien turns- and immediately scowls.

There is a black shape taking residence next to a trash can a little way down the path, sprawled out on the tiled floor. When Adrien stands the cat stops it's ridiculous movement, eyes immediately snapping to him. Like he knows he's been caught.

Well, this would explain the weird stares he's been getting.

“Plagg, oh my g- what are you even doing here?” He stomps over to the animal, reaching to grab the fur on the back of his neck, only to grasp air. Like always, Plagg doesn't want to be held, and runs from him.

“It’s yours?” the boy asks, twisting in his seat in order to watch the cat successfully evade another attempt at capture.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he grumps, lunging forward, only to miss and crack his knuckles against the ground. That doesn't help his mood, properly embarrassing himself in front of however many strangers arriving and leaving the station. “Though I can’t tell you why he's even here and _not at home_.”

Plagg doesn't seem affected by the pointed glare sent his way, flicking his tail carelessly as he bounds away and under the bench. It's a wonder that no security has come and chewed out Adrien for having a pet on the platform, but, besides a few other pedestrians, no one takes notice of the small scene he's creating.

“He must have followed you here.”

Adrien notes the humor in the stranger's voice, but is too frustrated to comment. He kneels and glowers at Plagg, who, in return, growls at him.

It isn't going to end well, he knows, but he reaches out nonetheless. He sees the hiss before he hears it, and then there's a flash of teeth. By the end of the ordeal, he's supporting the usual number of scratches and holding a very disgruntled cat.

Being the regular victim of Plagg’s tantrums, Adrien keeps his grip even with the teeth and claws catching his skin. “Ow! That's it. No more Camembert for you.” He immediately gets a bemoan that borderlined on a mewl and wide eyes are turned toward him. “I mean it, no cheese.”

The other boy finds that funny too, his laugh friendly and his smile reaching his eyes. He offers Adrien his hand. “Nino.”

Adrien can't help the smile he sends back, and is pleasantly surprised to find that it's genuine- not the close lipped fake thing he plasters on during photoshoots, but one that shows teeth and is halfway toward a laugh. Despite Plagg’s frustrated sounds at being manhandled, he's able to rearrange them so that he can grasp the hand. “Adrien.”

“Well, Adrien, you seem like a really cool dude, so I gotta ask… how much do you like to hear?”

“Uh…” Adrien hasn't gotten far in interaction with anyone outside his tutors and household servants (they are formal and precise and have no need of anything as ambiguous as useless questions or a well-timed pun), so he doesn't know how to properly respond. Years of isolation has Adrien looking at Plagg for some sort of explanation, realizing a moment too late that he was just a cat and wouldn't understand anything outside his unnatural love for cheese. He sits. “I'd love to keep my hearing, if that's what you're asking.”

“So you're totally cool with loud music?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Nino smiled. “Good.” Without further ado, he lifts his backpack onto his lap, unzipping it in the same manner as one of Adrien’s father’s accountants would their suitcases, with professionalism and efficiency. A black, rectangular box is conjured up and placed with care on the young man's lap, followed soon after by two folded stands.

It's only when two bulking speakers are lifted up and out of the seemingly too small backpack that Adrien decides to speak, “Um, what are you doing?”

“Setting up,” is the obvious answer.

The speakers are attached to the stands, which wobble as he awkwardly leans over the bulk in his care to arrange them. Adrien automatically reaches out to steady one and push it into the place the other was aiming for, careful for his hands not to stray too long on the equipment.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Plagg tries to bat the newly mounted fixture, probably thinking it's a new toy, but Adrien readjusts his grip on the animal yet again and sends a warning glare that demands obedience.

Nino is too busy fiddling with a phone to notice. The screen, large enough that if Adrien leans over just so he can distinguish words, shows a list of what is presumably music; there is a flick of a finger and it is scrolling endlessly, scrimping over a selection that, he doesn't doubt, is top notch. Then, with the familiarity of man who breathes the stuff, a song is chosen. Headphones materialize out of thin air and are settled comfortably around his neck, finishing the look with such finality that it's a surprise Adrien didn't notice their absence in the first place.

Then there is a noise, like an electrical _pop_ , and everything around them is coming alive. The speakers hum as power flows through them and the box, now open and unveiling itself to be mixing console, is highlighted in blue and red. A few knobs and sliders are adjusted, the lit up bars on the scale at its top flickering in accordance.

Nino grins at him before putting his headphones on. “Enjoy the show.”

The music starts off faint, slowly raising in volume until Adrien can pinpoint the vocals of a song he vaguely remembers. There's a beat somewhere in the mix, synchronizing to his own heartbeat as it soars, flying up and above the clouds in a way that makes him feel weightless. High as he is, he doesn't notice his foot start tapping.

Then Adrien hears the ticking.

He looks up at the giant clock above the entrance, knowing full well that what he's hearing isn't coming from it. He’s about to ask Nino what's happening when something stops him.

A man stills in the middle of throwing away his cup, staring vacantly at him.

All around him people freeze, like a camera snapping at just the right moment and capturing them within the timeless borders of a picture. Texting, talking, whatever they're doing, it ends- just like that. Life itself seems to stop just as the music swells, expanding in the space it's given and taking reign of the bodies that submit to its power.

It doesn't take long for the realization to spread across the station, other Parisians pausing in their daily routines to observe the event that's beginning to take place. Their attention gravitates toward the clearing in front of Adrien, interest sprouting on their faces as they take in the living statues rising from the crowds.

Beside him, Nino flips everything off, and every dancer slumps like a puppet.

The music starts up again, all the stillness from before gone in an instant. People move out of the way, unconsciously making a circle around the group of individuals currently moving to the notes marching out of the speakers. Kids excitedly tug on their parents’ hands, squealing in delight at the commotion, and phones throughout the square are brought out, flashes flickering as pictures and videos alike are taken. He can feel the buzz of excitement in the air, palpable enough to coat his skin and seep into his pores.

A woman struts through the mass of people, slipping into the niche made for her at the front. He watches her and her red midriff, bright and attention grabbing in the sea of dark colors, with rapt attention; eyes follow the sway of her hips in time with the music and the way her hands slide down her front as she slowly drops to the floor.

His breath hitches. It's her, the girl from the video.

The voices fade and stutter, courtesy of Nino, who is in his own world, blending a new song into the mix.

The dancers move accordingly, limbs popping and bodies jutting to the faster tempo. Heads snap to the right at particularly heavy beat, chests rising with the stutter motion of their hands. Then there is a collective gasp from the audience when a body is flung into the air, bending in a dangerous looking flip, and caught seconds before they become an indistinguishable splat on the ground. The stunt marks only the beginning of their spectacular show, a simple precedent to gravity defying flips and twirls that leave even Adrien breathless.

Something touches his cheek and he jerks back, blinking as he tries to comprehend the swarm of transparent spheres floating around them.

“The bubbles were my idea,” his companion, whom he's almost forgotten about in this surprising turn of events, calls over the music blasting from the speakers. “Adds a nice touch, don't you think?”

Adrien merely nods, in such a stupor that has nothing to do with the globules of air and everything to do with the quickstep the dancers accomplish, ending it with a spin and a body roll. His face must show it because the young man sitting next to him laughs and nudges his shoulder, good natured in every way.

The girl in red pops up again, demanding attention as she saunters through the sea of dancers, going up when everyone is down, spinning when they're still, and proving to be a one of a kind. While everyone else follows routine, she plays with the beat, letting it move through her.

 _Flawless_ is the only thing that comes to mind when Adrien watches her footwork, each step where it should be, and, when she spins, he's downright floored. Perfect, she’s perfect.

She doesn't come close to him, but he wishes she would, so he could assure himself that she's real and not a figment of his imagination. A part of him, growing larger and larger with every passing second, wishes he was brave to do what they're doing, brave enough to take those steps forward and join them- join her.

Then, as suddenly as they appear, they're gone.

The music cuts off, leaving Adrien reeling, and normality ensues. He watches as the dancers merge into the accumulated crowds, dissipating as if they had never been there in the first place. Like a wild dream, even the girl in red, whom he hadn't let out of his sight since her grand appearance, is lost.

Something nudges him in the side. It's Plagg, trying to gain his attention. More importantly, it's him trying break free of his hold to hit the speakers again. Nino notices this time and carefully pulls them closer and away from the cat.

Keeping a careful eye on the feline, the DJ asks, “How was it?”

“It was…”

“Awesome? Mind-blowing? Life changing?” The boy says with a grin, looking immensely proud.

The best thing he's ever seen, Adrien agrees, mind slowly catching up with his heart. He must have said it aloud because Nino’s smile grows bigger.

Then, “You have a phone?”

“Yeah.” The question has him pondering if any videos will be up yet and if he'll have enough room on his phone to save them all. He hopes so.

There's a minute or so where Nino looks at him expectantly, waiting. “This is where we exchange phone numbers, dude.”

Adrien blinks. “What?” The other boy extends out his phone and it take a second for the blond to understand what's being asked of him. “Oh, I- yeah, er, sorry.” Patting down his pants, he fishes out his phone from a pocket and, quickly unlocking it, hands it over.

Nino must be one of the most easygoing person Adrien’s ever met because he brushes past his awkwardness and exchanges their numbers, handing the device back to the blond a few moments later with the same casual smile. “You seem cool, so if you ever want to hang out, just give me a call.”

Adrien nods and somehow doesn't manage to screw up the first fist bump he’s ever given, even with Plagg getting antsy and trying to climb up his shoulders.

Nino stands, shouldering the backpack he didn't see being packed up, and sends him a salute. “Well, I gotta go. Catch you later.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Then the DJ is gone, swallowed by the still buzzing crowd, and Adrien is left alone with his jerk of a cat.

He doesn't have the power to move yet, his brain still trying to comprehend all that had happened. Going out without telling his father,  swapping numbers with Nino, promising to hang out without any regard to his personal schedule- for once, he's happy.

“A friend…” Delighted, he laughs. “I think I just made a friend,” he tells his cat excitedly.

Plagg nips his ear.

The response is good enough to lift his mood even higher. And so, with a bounce in his step and a cat in his arms, he makes his way home.

 

* * *

He has scheduled photoshoots the next three days, taking up his entire time from morning to evening, and the new contact in his phone is left untouched.

Adrien wants to get away from the photographers and designers, thoroughly pampered and suffocated, but he doesn't know how. This desire is new in feeling. Never before has he ever wanted something so badly that he's considering ideas to thwart his father’s work; usually he just suffers through it, ever the good son. The only time he can recall a photoshoot being canceled is when Chloe had abruptly barged on set and demanded that he go shopping with her, using her high social standing to bully the crew into giving him the very much needed day off.

“Are we close to finishing?” he asks, poised and back straight to make it seem like he's not itching to be out of their proximity and anywhere else.

Catherine, the makeup artist assigned to him today, pauses in the act of brushing a tinge of blush to his cheeks. She steps back and takes a look at him, eyebrows furrowed. Instead of calling him out on his impatience like he suspects she would, she gives slight nod. “Yes, just about. This is the last set.”

This appeases him enough to discard his plan of faking sick and follow the instructions given to him by prissy and stressed visionaries alike, finally set free half an hour later.

Gorilla, ever faithful, is there to drive him home and Natalie, ever prepared, is there to hand him a printed copy of his schedule for tomorrow. He finally makes it to the comfort of his room just as the sun is setting, dumping his bag on the floor with a tired sigh. He greets Plagg with a quick scratch under the chin as he digs out his phone from his pocket, eyeing the ‘No New Messages’ notification the screen projects.

A few taps and he has his contact list open, the latest one clicked and a new conversation brought up. Yet, unsure fingers hover over the screen, quickly erasing whatever words are typed out.

After the third attempt, which ultimately fails as he struggles for something to say, he tosses his phone and throws himself onto his bed. He groans into his pillow, burying his face in hopes of merging with the comforter and forgetting his lack of confidence.

A familiar weight jumps on him, small footsteps walking along his back until it reaches his shoulders. Groaning again, he makes a halfhearted attempt at swatting the intruder, except he can't reach. “Plagg…”

His cat ignores him and, rather than leave him be, starts to knead his neck.

“Get off,” he complains, “I'm already a social disappointment, I don't need you to treat me like a scratching post.”

Plagg beds down in the space between his shoulder blades and starts to purr softly. The deep rumble is relaxing enough that his muscles start to untense- obviously it's been the cat’s plan all along to offer this support, not because he likes Adrien, but to make him a more comfortable napping place.

“Why is this so hard?” he asks the room at large, voice muffled.

As expected, there is no answer. God, he's such a loser- can't even send a text message like a normal person.

He's still wallowing in the aura of his own lameness when, minutes later, his phone chimes. Thankfully, no one but Plagg is there to witness the way his body jolts at the sound, unsettling the both of them to the ground, and how he desperately crawls to his nightstand. The phone is in his hands even as Plagg hisses his displeasure and Adrien brings the screen close to his face.

It's a message from Nino.

 _u free?,_ the text reads.

Yes, yes, he's definitely free. He answers as such, already sending before he has time to consider how desperate it looks to reply so fast.

Nino’s response is quick, but more laid back. _sweet. im down at shell shock. u heard of it?_

No, he hasn't. One quick internet search and he comes up with the right place. It's a bar. Nothing too special, if he's going by the picture, but it's a neighborhood favorite.

_u down to swing by?_

His experience with bars are minimal, practically nonexistent. There wasn't any point of going out anywhere when there wasn't anyone to go out with, and now his lack of socializing is ultimately coming back to bite him. There's no doubt that his father and, through him, Natalie would prohibit him to go out on such short notice and at such a late hour- and to a bar of all places. Being an Agreste meant he had to keep up a good public image, one expected of his social class and refined upbringing.

People like him went out to galas and dinner parties, not to bars in the middle of Paris. People like him...

 _I'll be there_ , he replies, feeling a little rebellious, _just send me the address._

Nino messages him the address and one look at it tells Adrien that it's a reasonable walking distance. He could do this. Sneaking out and getting back before anyone noticed, it would be a piece of cake.

At least, he hopes it will be.

A quick glance at his clothes, far too perfect to be casual, has him changing into an unassuming pair of black jeans. He doesn't bother switching shirts, simply shrugging on a dark sweater over it to hide its refined quality and company logo. His oldest pair of sneakers look too clean, but there's nothing he can do about that.

He throws a look to Plagg, now curled on his pillow and watching him with an unfaltering gaze. “This is what normal teenagers wear, right?”

He gets a yawn as an answer.

“Yeah, you're right, I'm fine- I look fine.”

Adrien turns to look in the full length mirror hanging on the wall; his reflection frowns at him, somehow still looking far too put together. He purses his lips in thought, and, after some consideration, runs his hands through his hair, ruining the style from his last shoot; the gel sticks to his fingers, but works to his advantage and keeps his hair in a perpetual crows nest.

A baseball cap is shoved on his head to complete the look. _Better_ , he thinks, fiddling with the small details in his nervousness. It's a far cry from his usual appearance, and he hopes that he won't be recognized on sight.

Turning off the security system is the last thing to do and it's almost too easy to disable it, no one around to catch him tiptoeing to the controls and entering the designated code. With it comes the realization too, that what he's doing is actually happening. Sneaking out had never been an option he considered, only a daydream where he imagines himself a hero slipping into the night, a secret identity to be kept.

No one would know where he is, or that he'd left. He would be free from every responsibility, a teenager without the load of expectations and standards set on him. That fact sets his pulse racing, a thrill taking over at the notion that he had a night to himself, even if it turned out to be short lived.

He’s halfway out the window when he looks back. Plagg has remained in the same position and doesn't look like he's going to move anytime soon. “Stay here.”

A single, lazy blink is given, but Adrien’s suspicious nonetheless. “I mean it. Stay. Here.”

He didn't need another repeat of the train station incident. Why the cat even followed him there is a mystery. Around the house was fine, expected even, but outside? He'd gone to photoshoots and the like and it never happened. Obviously, his cat just likes making trouble.

His foot fumbles when he lowers himself from the windowsill, inching away from the safety of home and out towards the uncharted frontier of the world. He takes a deep breath, forcing his frantic heart to calm.

The last thing he sees of his room is Plagg’s green eyes watching him take his first leap toward freedom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Beat Calls" by Scott & Brendo


	2. Watch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals were brutal, man.

Club Shell Shock isn't as run down as he's led to believe. Quite the contrary, it's bigger than expected and inviting in its simple outward appearance. A neon green sign spelling its name (along with a depiction of a turtle with a tipping martini glass) sits happily atop its large, heavy doors where a single bouncer stands with solidity. A line of people curl around its brick walls and corner, eagerly waiting to be allowed entry into the building, which hums and vibrates with music that can be heard through the walls.

 _just head in_ , Nino's last text had read, _im on music duty so ill meet up w/ u l8r_.

Easier said than done, he thinks as he balks just short of walking into a pair of girls who strut past him arm in arm and take their place at the end of the line; one of the girls, a brunette with olive green eyes, giggles and coyly wiggles her fingers at him over her friend's shoulder. His attempt at a smile, polite and cracking with nervousness, doesn't end well, twitching into place a second too late and becoming an awkward grimace once he looks back at the building and the uncertainty it holds.

 _Okay, breathe_ , Adrien commands himself to relax, step over the curb and into the street, _just go over there and…_

A car alarm sounds out from somewhere to the left of him.

Oh God, he couldn't do this. He was such a wimp and he couldn't do this. What was he even thinking? Sneaking out of the house to go to a bar to meet up with some random stranger he met on the streets? This was crazy. He was crazy and he should turn back right now and go home, forget about Nino and street dancers and the girl in red-

No, stop that. He was not going home and he was most definitely going in.

With courage that surprises him he crosses the street, straightening his back as he goes. By the  time he reaches the front of the line and the man guarding its principles, Adrien has convinced himself that he deserves this. Like a knight brandishing a sword against a troll lurking underneath the local bridge, he takes charge of the situation.

“Hi- I mean, no, good evening- no, wait, that's worse- just forget I said anything. I'm here because I want to go in? Nino- he's my friend, well I'm pretty sure he is- and well, he plays the music here and he said- said that I should maybe, probably, totally come here and, uh, here I am, because, well,” he fumbles at the bouncer, metaphorically tripping and running himself through with his own sword just as the battle begins. “I- I'm on the list.”

The buff man looks down at him with a professionally neutral expression, unknowingly crushing what's left of his courage into fine dust with the stare. “You know the DJ?”

Not trusting his mouth, Adrien nods.

“What's your name?”

Shoot, the silent tactic was out now that he had to open his mouth and let the disgusting babble gurgle out. “Its, ah, A-Adrien.” Nailed it.

The lack of last name is ignored and, for that, Adrien’s grateful (he didn't think he could survive through another live performance of embarrassing himself out in the streets); not to mention that he wasn't completely comfortable with the curious glances sent his way by the other club goers still in line. The clipboard between them is scrutinized, the bouncer’s gaze ranging down the long list of names, and Adrien forces his own attention to remain steady as he awaits for the verdict. Seconds pass and he has to adamantly fight the urge to fidget when he feels the stares start to accumulate on his back, growing in intensity the longer he stands there. The blond adjusts his hat, uncomfortable.

Then, blessedly, “You're on the list.”

He was on the list. Oh thank God, he was on the list. It didn't matter that he was still going against his father's orders and had absolutely no idea how the night would turn out- it didn't matter because _he was on the list_. Instant relief rushes through him, sweeping away the panic that had slowly been rising with a cool sigh.

A green, velvet rope is pulled back and the man steps to the side, allowing entry.

His ribs become the kindle in which the spark of excitement, a resource only scavenged from the prospect of something new, is able to transform into a roaring fire within the chambers of his full chest. It remolds itself to a lantern, guiding him through the forest of black lights and smoke machines. Finally, he enters the building-

-and something inside him shifts.

There's music blasting out of speakers at every corner, shaking the air around him as he follows along the back of the club. The main lights are dimmed, sharp purples and blues and reds highlighting the dance floor while soft lights give enough light at the bar and tables surrounding the floor. People mingle about, slipping past each other and colliding in an explosion of moving bodies and drunken calls.

He smiles.

This, he decides then and there, is where he belongs.

Adrien makes a turn about the large room, slinking between strangers who lean against the walls and loiter around the dance floor. Green eyes tack onto the dancers, watching them move with appreciation and thinly concealed fascination. Like a legendary beast waking from slumber, the entire establishment breathes and pulses with an energy Adrien has only ever dreamed of. Never before has he felt so invigorated.

It's probably this one track focus that has him not seeing the chair or the girl perched on it, completely unaware to the fact that he had circled around the entire room and reached the bar. And it is most definitely his fault when he rams into the unexpected obstruction, nearly falling over and taking the poor individual who's unfortunate enough to be pulled along with him. They are saved from breaking the table next to them by last minute reflexes, her arm catching a pillar near by while he catches himself on the chair, feet sliding unsteadily.

“Oh, god, I'm so sorry- I wasn't looking where I was going! Are you okay?”

The girl, sporting a round faced and colorful dreadlocks, peeks up at him from underneath a head bandana and seems to shrink on the spot.

Worried, he repeats his apology and question again, receiving a small nod after a hesitant pause on her end. Meekly, she introduces herself as Myléne.

“It's nice to meet you, Myléne,” he begins, helping her straighten out the chairs they had scattered in their almost tumble, taking notice of the lack of people and how, when she sits back down, she casts a sad (wistful) look over at the dancers in front of them. “Again, I'm sorry for, you know, nearly crushing you. It's my first time here and, well, ha, it's all a lot to take in and-”

“Is that… a cat?”

Adrien stops, gives the girl a blank look, confused until sudden realization and irritation sets in. _Oh no,_ he thinks, _you can't be serious_ …

Sure enough, as soon as he looks up and over his shoulder, there's Plagg. Sitting under the protection of a bar stool, he practically blends into his surroundings. Adrien counts himself lucky that he spots him so quickly (he owes that to years of practice and a pet with the habit of sneaking around), knowing that the cat has a knack of disappearing once he's been caught.

Once again, his cat is crashing his social outing.

“I told you to stay at home,” he hisses once he has the animal in his arms- his cat makes a surprised sound, caught off guard just enough to leave Adrien scratch free- and immediately tries to think of a way to sneak him out without anyone noticing. He's just considering the idea of stuffing Plagg under his sweatshirt when Myléne stops him.

“It's yours? Can I… Can I pet him?”

“What? You want to…” A black paw bats the tassel hanging from his neck and he blinks in confusion because someone wants to _willingly_ interact with his jerk of a cat? “Are you sure? I-I mean, yeah, go for it- if you want.”

Praying that Plagg would at least have the decency to behave like a good pet for once, he hands him over to the girl.

Though he has nothing to worry because the moment the cat’s out of his arms and safely in hers, any hint of deviousness vanishes, his pet relaxing into something akin to contentment. With a small smile, the girl hesitantly brings Plagg closer and strokes his head. When the cat closes his eyes and doesn't retaliate with biting, Adrien feels almost cheated.

“He likes you even more than me,” he tells her, half joking to hide the sting of betrayal.

“That'd be a first,” she mumbles and Adrien pauses, unsure if he had heard right.

“Is… Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong,” she says too quickly. “Why would something be wrong?”

He leans against the pillar, bringing himself closer but still keeping a respectable distance away. “Well, we're at a club and you're here petting my cat- which isn't normal, I know, but let's ignore that. You're a dancer, aren't you?”

It's a guess more than anything, but he can't be far off seeing as they've met in a place that seems to breed the profession and those like it. Unfortunately, the guess seems to bring what progress he's had in connecting to people his own age to a screeching stop. The stout girl stops her petting and the cat in her arms raises his head questioningly.

“Not a very good one,” she concedes to answer after a minute, tone self deprecating. There is a silent sigh that lets slip the implication that this is an ongoing struggle that she faces. (Not being good enough is something he can definitely relate to).

“I'm sure you're just saying that. I bet you're a great dancer.” When he doesn't get a response, disagreeing or not, he doesn’t know what to do. A few more minutes pass in what he could only describe as awkward silence (could it still be considered that when there was music to drown it out?).

Looking around, he struggles to find something to say that will hurdle them over this (not so small) bump in the road. “Well, do you want to dance?”

“What?”

He nods to the dance floor. “Do you want to dance?”

Myléne drops her gaze to Plagg’s glossy coat. “Oh, no, I don't…”

The expression reminds him of himself. Not the Adrien who's snuck out and taking control of his life for the night, but the Adrien who puts on a face and follows the orders given to him, naively believing in the transparent labels others designate to pin to his skin. That Adrien, in any way or form, he decides in that moment, doesn't belong here.

“Hey.” The sudden softness in his voice catches her and he wills his next words to be ones she will remember. “The only thing keeping you down is yourself.”

It's something his mother would always say, followed almost immediately by a comforting hug when Adrien found himself in a less than happy mood as a child. Of course, he doubts the girl next to him would appreciate a hug from a stranger, but the words still hold truth nonetheless and he backs them up with a firm nod of the head. And it feels right, passing along his mother’s wisdom- as if she would be proud to know he's keeping her benevolent memory alive.

“Dance with me.”

Still, Myléne’s hesitant. “I don't even know you…”

Recalling the times he had felt down and had just wanted someone to be there to push him toward the right direction, he places his hand against his heart, aghast. “What? I'm more than _paw_ sitive that I wasn't imagining this _cat_ nection between us. I mean, you're holding my cat. How can we be considered strangers after that?”

When she gives a little laugh Adrien knows he's done something right. It's sweet and bright, a suiting sound to her smile. He grins in return, hoping to ease her out of her shell. “Seriously, dance with me.”

This time when she looks away, he refuses to be ignored. He moonwalks back into her line of sight, grinning when he spots the hint of another smile. Hiding behind Plagg doesn't work because he has no qualms about bending down to ridiculous levels to keep her attention. Adrien imagines he's in the safety of his own room and lets loose, spinning on his heel and around the back of her chair to send her an over-eager smile.

If cats could have expressions, Plagg would be looking at him in total disappointment. Jumping from Mylene’s arms, he slinks to an exceptionally dark corner devoid of people as if he couldn't bare to be seen in the same room as Adrien.

Well, the blond sniffs, it's his fault for following him out.

Cat no longer hampering her way, his companion rises from her seat. It's enough room to allow the blond to lightly nudge at her shoulder, gently insistent and honest in his desire for her to join him on the dance floor. The music plays a particular chord and he strikes a pose, jutting his hip just so. He must look like a complete idiot, but, still, it's worth it when Mylene giggles and follows him further away from the tables.

Just over the heads of the dance floor goers Adrien sees a familiar cap. Nino is in the zone, nodding to the beat he sets up and expertly utilizing the extensive mixing technology stationed before him. When his eyes flicker upward once, to get a feel for the atmosphere and the people living it, they somehow find Adrien in the crowd; his new friend smiles like sun, throwing an enthusiastic arm out in greeting and changing the song into something earth shattering upbeat.

Adrien grins, liking how the song injects itself into his bloodstream and has him itching to move. Myléne doesn't share his incentive; she looks back to the tables, where a few people are watching them, and he can see her courage failing.

“Hey,” he says, offering his hand, “trust me.”

When she finally takes his hand, he goes into a deep bow, grinning up at her through his bangs. “Your subjects await, your Highness.”

Then he's pulling out all the stops, using every ridiculous move he knows to keep the girl next to him laughing. He gives her everything he wished he had when he was younger- an encouraging pat on the back during a particularly long photoshoot or a smile during on his father’s company meetings, anything besides stone faces and disapproving frowns- something to let her know that it was alright to be herself. It works wonderfully, Myléne more focused on him than the attention they're slowing gaining.

“You're horrible!” Myléne laughs, allowing him to spin her. He goes to dip her, tango style, but she's giggling too much and waving her hands to make him stop.

He backs off, but keeps close enough that she can hear him over the music when he says, “If I'm so bad, then show me how it's done.”

Adrien is pleased to see the sweet spark of a challenge when she answers, “OK, I will.”

Then she is stepping forward into the center of the makeshift circle their audience has formed around them. A few experimental steps, basic but exact and correctly placed, starts her number. It's not long until she gets into the roll of things, adding more to what stands with speed that impresses him. Not one move is fumbled, precise with an ardor that is quiet in its shine.

Adrien mimics her without fault, layering on some of his own moves to give it his own flare. The gleeful surprise on her face is downright adorable and he does them again, wiggling his eyebrows for extra effect.

The response is immediate, the giggling girl starting again, smooth steps having her twirling beside him with more confidence than he'd expect. When she pops out her hip in time with the song, he places a hand over his heart and pretends to stumble back from the force of her greatness bearing down on him. A cheer erupts around them at the move and, like one unit, raise their hands in the air in celebration of the rhythm that flows through them all.

Adrien backs away, letting the spotlight illuminate the talent that's slowly being unburied from past fear. He smiles wide when, during a particular passionate move that has her knee sweeping up and down in one graceful movement, she lets out a delighted laugh. People of all kinds scream their approval, flowing with the melody and living in the now.

Hands clap in time with the beat Nino sets up and Adrien never wants the moment to end. _This is it_ , his mind chants, _this is how life should be_.

But, all too soon, Myléne gets low as she sweeps her feet underneath her body and closing it with a spin just as the song comes to a stop. It's a clear win of a game where there are no losers and Adrien feels great- more than great, actually, he feels _alive_ \- for being part of it.

There's no instructor to analyze his every move, to point out the flaws and demand he get it right. It's just the beat of the music, the flashing of the lights, and the rhythm of their pulsing hearts. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, Adrien’s never had as fun dancing as he did then and there. His cheeks certainly had never hurt from smiling this much.

He turns to his partner and bows, laughing when the small woman returns it with a cute curtesy.

Soon, the people around him convulse and slide into their own cadence, moving with the next song; they are no longer the spectators, but the main attraction. The air smells of sweat and artificial smoke- the stench anthem of the youth living their life to the fullest.

Excusing himself, he leaves Myléne just as a group of girls advance on her; they start questioning her before he's even out of earshot and he catches her eye, both of them with matching grins- he knows that should he need one, there is a friendly dance partner in her.

Sliding past dancers, he makes it off the dance floor. Nino’s on him in an instant, a new DJ at the booth. “Dude, you didn’t tell me you knew how to dance.”

Adrien shrugs. “I dabble.”

The boy bounces on his feet, sending a few light punches to his shoulder (he ignores the twinge of pain that shoots down the arm in favor of the excited grin his friend sends his way). “You must dabble in the dark arts, bro, because those moves were killer!”

It's the most absurd and sincere compliment he's ever received.

“And what about you, Master DJ?” Adrien asks, unable to stop the grin that simply won't leave his face. “I saw you up there, rocking that mix. Best I've ever heard.”

The compliment hits home and Nino claps Adrien on the shoulder, shaking him with a pleased laugh that climbs over the music. “Ha! I knew there was a reason I liked you!”

The lights change from red to blue and Adrien feels everlasting with the joy coursing through him. No matter what happens he's sure that he'll remember this feeling- as if the world could blow up and he'd take it in stride because the night is young and freedom wraps itself around him like a second skin. No doubt he'll reminiscent about this experience when it's all over, linger over its memory during lonely dinners and gray mornings. It's a bittersweet thought, but a gift all the same.

“Hey! Newbie! Sweet moves!”

The call that breaks his head trip comes from across the room, at a booth stationed next to the bar; it's chalked full of people, whose gazes slide to his form and stick like glue. And although he should be used to having eyes appraise him, constantly dissecting every twitch of the lip and crease of the shirt until it showcases perfection to its most facetious quality, this is different. A string slides through his mind, dragging at its tail a diffident thought that he is on his own and how the world sees him will depend solely on him- there are no makeup artists to polish him or light fixtures to cast the perfect shadow, just plain Adrien.

Nino hears the call too and, without any of Adrien's demureness, makes his way toward the group, dragging the blond after him with the intention of ‘meeting the gang.’

They look exactly as they did in the video and Adrien feels a little intimidated because _oh my gosh, look, they’re right in front of him_ and _Adrien, do not screw this up_. He wonders idly what they're doing tonight. Another run through the city strutting their stuff or are they just kicking back and enjoying the night?

He silently settles on the later, taking in the picture of them lounging about.

A small pale blonde girl sits in the lap of tall, lean girl with a taste for dark colors, happily sipping on a drink before offering it to her companion; they are as different as night and day, but synchronized in the same way. Next to them are two boys, loud and obnoxious in their words, especially so with the heated conversation they seem to be holding with another girl, pink hair and short in stature, who leans back in her chair and nudges them with a skate covered foot. Across from them, watching them with heavy set eyebrows and a bored (angry?) frown, sits a giant that is easily twice his size both in height and width; his stare shifts to the two approaching and Adrien has to fight the urge to turn tail and run at the intensity of it.

However, the instinctive flight is cut short when a women with glasses leans forward, eyes bright as she takes a long look- it makes him feel like his every secret has been dissected and torn through, nothing left unturned- at Adrien and says, “So, Nino… who's your new friend?”

The DJ loops an arm around his neck, obliviously and effectively cutting off any forms of escape. “Ladies and gents, let me introduce you to the one, the only, Ad-”

“Ah,” Adrien tries to interrupt without it looking like he's interrupting, shoulders pushed back so he can discreetly jab his elbow into the other boy's stomach. He hears the small puff of air from behind him and, understanding that he has only a few seconds to act, quickly comes forward with a, “They call me Chat Noir.”

It's the first name that comes to mind and Adrien wants to bury himself right there because _come on, Chat Noir?_

Nino, bless his heart, goes with it. Not a word is said about the mistreatment of his body and he, _what luck_ , seems to think it's a joke, probably thinking back to Plagg slinking around somewhere. His laugh gets everyone else to crack their hard exterior and going along with the feeble attempt to shroud his identity without making it weird (as he's one to do). It’s a thinly veiled blessing in disguise, one that covers and smooths the suspicion and tension in a soft blanket of humor.

He's about to add more- tell them about how cool he is and how he swears he doesn't stalk them on social media because obviously he didn't wake up and immediately check their blog (that would be ridiculous and untrue since he does it before he goes to bed)- when something rips his attention away from him.

Something red.

How he didn't notice her immediately is beyond him. She sits in the very center of the group, squished between glasses girl and a boy with tomato red hair, listening to the conversation with a half smile. Pigtails dip with a nod of her head as she leans a small chin upon an upraised palm. Her eyes, blue and bright and bewitching, stare at him and he feels himself slipping into their wondrous hold.

Her mouth opens and he waits with bated breath to hear what voice belongs to such a person. He's rewarded with the high trill of bells, “If you're Chat Noir, then I'm Ladybug.”

It's a joke, made so on his benefit. There's laughter all around, Adrien joining in because, as much as it’s a tease, he can't help but think it's fitting.

He doesn't know what pushes him toward the table, but he does and ends up bracing an arm on it as he leans forward in such a way that he's sure that all she sees is him. A smile, lopsided and definitely not appropriate for any of his shoots, curls his lips. “Well, I've never met a bug as cute as you.”

A slender eyebrow twitches up in an acknowledgment of his _weak, like wow, what was he thinking?_ pickup line. Still, her presence emboldens him and he doesn't back down- instead of sinking into the shadows of doubt as Adrien, Chat Noir takes on the dark unknown as if it was an adventure and he, hungry for the challenge.

The girl so rightly dubbed Ladybug rises from her seat and, like waves rippling over a once still surface, the others follow. The coordinated movement has the other clubbers on high alert, the background music dimming as faces turn their way. Though Adrien doesn't expend much focus on the fact or how the dance crew walk around the bar and towards him almost predatorily, only having eyes for the girl in red.

“Nino,” he hears the glasses girl say and he can only imagine the visual that goes with the tone: arms crossed as a puckish smile pulls at her cheeks. “Get back to the booth- I think we have ourselves a challenger.”

Now, hold on- _what?_

The DJ’s expression is comical in its surprise when Adrien momentarily glances his way, but it quickly clears until he’s supporting the most gleeful grin Adrien’s ever seen. He rubs his hands in what looks to be anticipation before bolting through the crowd and towards his station.

He yells something at him, but Adrien can’t hear it over the current music, but he thinks he sees the words “Good luck” on his lips. He doesn’t have time to dwell on what that’s supposed to mean, Ladybug stepping in front of him, chest out with an air of someone who’s completely comfortable in their own skin.

“You ready, kitty?”

Blonde eyebrows rise into his hairline at the name, but he decides to forgo the flirty snippet that teeters on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he goes for something a little more classy, “This cat’s always ready to play.”

Well, he tried.

Ladybug doesn't bat an eyelash as she struts toward him, getting right in his face (the instinct to keep his identity a secret and jerk away is almost too strong to quell, but he succeeds, knowing that his credibility would take a hit if he so much as twitched). He goes cross eyed when a manicured finger comes up to tap the tip of his nose. “You know, I thought you’d say that.”

Then she shoves him back into the awaiting arms of the mob, smirking. Arms catch him and push him forward again, straight into the ring. Somehow, he’s been herded away from the booths and onto the dancefloor; he's caught between a wall of people and her eyes, not entirely sure which one intimidates him more.

She turns away from him and toward the crowds, her shirt rising with her hands. “DJ, give us a new beat!”

The background music cuts off abruptly and the entirety of the club has her attention, bending under the sweep of her gaze. The lights are turned down everywhere except on the dancefloor, highlighting Ladybug and how she milks the excited masses of yells and cheers. The beginning of a song is already trickling through the speakers as she swivels on her heel to face him once more, teasing everyone with the prospect of an upcoming battle.

“Now,” Ladybug says. “Let's see what this kitty can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Watch Me" by Bella Thorne and Zendaya


End file.
